


To Deduce Them All

by TasarienOfCarasGaladhon



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Sauronlock, pure unadulterated crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long shift at the surgery, John found a golden ring.  This golden ring does strange things, like magically return to his finger, whisper, and make him invisible.  Is this Sherlock's fault, or something completely different?  And why is John dreaming about dwarves and gigantic, hairy feet?  PRE REICHENBACH AU, NO S3 SPOILERS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Golden Rings and Hairy Feet

**Author's Note:**

> I posted on tumblr a few days ago about my astonishment that even though Benedict Cumbersauron and Martin Baggins are in the same film, no one is writing Sauronlock yet, preferring to stick to Smauglock. I couldn't resist a funny piece about a magical ring that whispers in Sherlock's voice. How Sherlock will react to Sauron's little trinket...well, you'll have to find out if I make this into a multichapter fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a ring and has a strange dream.

There was an object in this room that didn't belong to him.

John snorted. Living with Sherlock Holmes, one got used to the half-mad, half-brilliant detective scattering his possessions all over the flat—including John's bedroom—but this was new. On the floor of his tiny wardrobe, glinting as it caught the light, was a plain golden ring.

It must have been from a case, John thought logically. Sherlock was 'married to his work', so it wasn't his. His parents, as far as the good doctor knew, were still living, so there was no reason for Sherlock to have their wedding bands.

“Oh well,” he sighed to himself, shrugging, and picked up the piece of jewelry.

To his great surprise, the ring started to shrink. An eerie whisper came out of nowhere, and he almost dropped the thing in shock.

“ _John_ ,” he heard. “ _JOHN!_ ”

“Who's there?” Dr. Watson said, slipping into military crispness. Sharp blue eyes looked around his room and out the window, searching for intruders, hidden microphones and cameras, anything that would explain this.

A low, dark, masculine laugh came next, and John's heart raced. He was alone in the house, he knew it. Sherlock was at Bart's, pestering Molly for thumbs or toes or whatever he needed for his next experment. And yet, the laugh sounded like Sherlock's!

“Sherlock?” John called uncertainly.

There was no reply.

“Right,” the soldier muttered. "I'm imagining things because I haven't slept in forty-eight hours. Pull yourself together, Watson!"

Placing the ring on his nightstand, he changed into pajamas and went to bed, closing his curtains to shut out the daylight. Night shifts at the surgery were never fun, but he had to do something in between cases or risk going totally mad.

His last conscious thought was of the shopping he would do later, with tea as the number one priority. 

 

 

 

_John had never been a tall man, but now he was positively tiny! In his dream, he wore the ring he'd found in his bedroom, and wandered around a place he had never seen before in his life. It was made of solid rock, although the rock had been carved into the shape of massive trees. The people he saw were all twice his height or more, and oddly distorted. John wasn't sure if he was the ghost, or they._

“ _Hello?” he said uncertainly, and the nearest person didn't even stop. “Hello!”_

_Irritated, John decided to follow. It was a woman, a rather beautiful woman with long, dark hair. Her ears were pointed like Spock's from Star Trek, making the soldier frown. What on earth was this?_

_The woman (or was it a woman?) suddenly met another creature, and they spoke in a musical, strange language John had never heard in his life._

“ _What a ridiculous dream,” the doctor thought, exasperated. He was three feet tall, his vision had gone all out of focus, and no one could hear or see him. Brilliant! Maybe the stupid ring he had picked up was one of Sherlock's experiments, like the 'drugged' coffee. Maybe he was recording John's strange dreams now, to mock his 'average' mind later._

“ _Well, here's something for you to record, Sherlock!” John shouted, knowing he was being ridiculous, that this was all a dream, and Sherlock wasn't even here. He still made a rude gesture with his invisible hand, and stomped away from the couple, who still ignored him. His feet felt oddly large for someone this small._

_He hadn't paid much attention to where he went, but John found himself in a large room full of cells. It took another second to note that the cells were occupied, by bearded men slightly taller than John in this tiny form._

“ _Bilbo?” whispered the nearest, who had a long, white beard. “Is that you, Hobbit?”_

_Fed up with his blurry, unfocused vision, John pulled the golden ring off his finger. Immediately, the world came back into focus, and the old man's eyes widened._

“ _Well well, master burglar,” he said kindly. “It's good to see you at last. That's a mighty useful ring you've found!”_

“ _Is it?” John asked, confused._

“ _It kept you invisible and out of these cells, did it not?” the older man shrugged. “With you roaming free, we have some hope of getting out!”_

“ _Ah, right,” John muttered, looking down at himself. He usually kept a pocket knife on him, for the sticky situations in which a gun wasn't enough. What he saw, however, were not his clothes at all. He wore a bright yellow waistcoat and short green trousers, which showed off enormous, hairy feet._

_He looked back up at the old man, who waited expectantly._

“ _I'll see if I can find keys,” John promised. What a strange dream!_

“ _Go, then,” the prisoner said quietly. “But wear that ring at all times! I don't care how quiet Hobbits might be, it wouldn't do to have you captured.”_

_As John took the ring out of his pocket, he heard a strange buzzing sound—no, it wasn't strange at all. His phone!_

  
  
John woke with a start, and nearly fell out of bed, tangled as he was in his sheets and duvet. The message read:

 

**Lestrade has a new case for us. Will stop at Baker St. with cab to collect you on the way to crime scene. SH**

 

As the doctor groaned and hauled himself out of bed, he noted a very strange thing.

The ring was on his finger.


	2. Dinner at Angelo's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, John and Sherlock have a break in between cases, and John answers one question about the ring, which spawns a thousand more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized after writing this that I modeled my Angelo after Pilot!Angelo the former carjacker rather than ASiP!Angelo. Sorry, not sorry. I love the restaurant scene from the pilot, especially drunken Sherlock. XD

“Honestly, Lestrade, do your people have no brains at all?” asked Sherlock haughtily. “How could anyone miss that enormous bootprint under the window, or the ticket stub from the _Belfast_ in the waste basket? Only one Navy man had the motive and opportunity to kill the victim, and all of the evidence points to him. Case closed, and don't call me in for anything less than a seven next time.”

 

The DI sighed, and rubbed at his tired eyes. Four murders in one weekend, and Sherlock's attitude did not help in the slightest. Not for the first time, he wondered if today was the day he'd snap and break the posh git's nose.

 

“Greg,” John said quietly, shaking his head. “Get some rest, you're dead on your feet. Let's get a pint next Friday, yeah?”

 

“Alright, mate,” replied Lestrade gratefully. You could count on John to understand and diffuse a Sherlock situation before it got nasty. “Later.”

 

“Bye,” John answered, and waved as he turned to follow Sherlock. 

 

The ride back to Baker Street was quiet; John had praised his friend enough at the crime scene, and Sherlock's three days without sleep or real food were catching up to him. He looked drowsy.

 

“Angelo's?” the taller man asked suddenly, and John murmured his consent. Anything to get some food into his stubborn flatmate! “Excellent. I'm in the mood for some of his eggplant parmigiana,” Sherlock added, rubbing his hands.

 

“That does sound good,” the doctor admitted. “We're lucky it's early, by our standards at least.”

 

It was true; it was only nine o'clock, which meant that for once, the Chinese restaurant was not the only one open. As much as John liked the Jade Dragon, it really wasn't the healthiest food to eat every day.

 

Angelo Rosatti was very happy to see them. The detective winced as the cheerful Italian hugged him tightly, then offered a bottle of his best wine. Like John, Angelo knew Sherlock well enough to tell when he'd just solved a case.

 

“Thank you, Angelo,” the younger man said calmly, removing his long coat and smoothing his suit jacket. 

 

“And Doctor Watson,” the cook greeted happily, “it is good to see you. Do you need the menu?”

 

“No need,” Sherlock answered for him, now seated comfortably at their usual table. “I'll have the eggplant parmigiana, and John will have the chicken saltimbocca with a side of your rosemary potatoes.”

 

John's jaw dropped. “How did you—oh, forget it!” he said ruefully.

 

The detective smirked. “I saw you looking at that table,” he explained, “and your mouth was practically watering. Besides, you're eating less red meat these days, and I know you avoid tomato sauce when you're wearing your favorite shirt,” he added.

 

John looked down. He hadn't even noticed in his hurry to dress, but he was wearing his favorite casual shirt, a pale blue one that seemed almost made for him. It would never be as fitted as Sherlock's designer shirts, but it suited John fine.

 

“I'll get those right out,” Angelo promised, and bustled off with a knowing grin.

 

“I don't know why I'm not used to it,” John remarked as they nibbled at the bread in their basket. “You know my habits better than I do at this point.”

 

“True,” Sherlock acknowledged. “For starters, you had a normal shift at the clinic, but you slept terribly when you came home, and then I woke you. Nightmares?” he asked briskly.

 

John fought a smile. Sherlock tried so hard to come across as an uncaring sociopath, and then he undid his own work with moments like this one. Only John and Mycroft saw this side of him, and the former soldier was proud to be included in Sherlock's tiny circle of trust.

 

“Not exactly,” John replied. “Just a strange dream, really. I was three feet tall and breaking twelve dwarves out of prison.”

 

The detective raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing until Angelo had poured them both a glass of wine and left.

 

“Really, John,” he said softly, “You are at a perfectly adequate, albeit slightly below average height for a British man. There's no need to join a troupe of criminal dwarves.”

 

“I know that!” John protested. “I can't control what I dream, Sherlock, and I'm _not_ having a midlife crisis about my height. I wouldn't even know where to find criminal dwarves.”

 

“I would,” answered the younger man seriously.

 

For a moment, John and Sherlock looked at each other over the wine bottle and the candles. Then, both men exploded into laughter at the ridiculous nature of their conversation. Any tension left over from the crime scene, or work, or John's dream dissipated as they gasped for breath and clutched their sides. Angelo's other customers turned to stare, especially newer ones who had never seen John and Sherlock there after a case.

 

“That was good,” wheezed John, finally catching his breath. “I needed that, thanks, Sherlock.”

 

“You're welcome,” replied the detective, suppressing his low, rumbling chuckles and grinning instead.

 

“Having a good time, eh?” Angelo cried, appearing at Sherlock's side with two heaping plates. “Here you go, my friend. Parmigiana for you, and the chicken for Dr. Watson. Buon appetito.”

 

“Cheers,” John murmured.

 

For a few minutes, they sat in a comfortable silence, enjoying the food and the sounds and smells of a busy Italian restaurant. The good doctor could almost see strength returning to Sherlock as he ate, and was glad of it. 

 

“So,” John asked, finally breaking the silence, “what will you do with the fingers Molly gave you?”

 

“A simple experiment,” replied Sherlock, “to determine the effects of certain household product combinations, and how efficient they are at breaking down a body.”

 

John sighed, but there was no anger or shock. This was Sherlock being Sherlock. “I'll be watching telly through a gas mask, then.”

 

Sherlock's eyes were positively sparkling. “Dr. Watson, you are the world's best flatmate. I'll keep the kitchen window open; that should leave the fumes at a tolerable level.”

 

“Thanks for that,” the blond man said, raising his wineglass in a toast. “At least they're just fingers in small containers, and not whole corpses in the bathtub.”

 

“I did ask,” the detective confessed, “but Molly wouldn't let me take a whole body home.”

 

For a fraction of a second, John believed him. Then he saw the slight twitch at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

 

“You wanker,” the doctor breathed. “For a moment I thought you were serious!”

 

“And that, John, is the difference between you and the rest of the world,” Sherlock proclaimed, with the air of one bestowing a great honor. “At crime scenes you _do_ miss everything of importance, but when it comes to human behavior, you are remarkably observant. Anyone else would have taken me seriously just now, since it fits my profile as a murderous psychopath,” he finished with a dramatic stage-whisper and hand flourish. “Now let's go.”

 

Angelo never charged Sherlock, nor John when he was with him. To make up for it, the detective always left a tip large enough to cover the meal, and vanished before the kindly former carjacker could protest. Strolling back to Baker Street in a pleasant haze of good food and wine, and the high of solving another case, was one of the joys of living with Sherlock Holmes. 

 

Mrs Hudson was letting out her cat as they approached, and she greeted them with her usual enthusiasm. 

 

“Evening, boys,” she said happily. “Another murder, was it? I can tell by that smile on Sherlock's face.”

 

“Indeed it was, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied. “Have you run out of herbal soothers?”

 

Startled, John looked down. Mrs. Hudson had barely moved since they'd seen her, but she was standing rather stiffly, and of course Sherlock would pick up on that.

 

“Oh, I haven't run out,” their landlady explained. “I'll take another now that I've let out Mr. Bingley.”

 

“Good,” answered Sherlock. “Good night then, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“Night, boys,” she replied, and startled John with a wink and a whispered “Good luck!”

 

The doctor shrugged mentally and followed Sherlock upstairs. Mrs. Hudson got strange ideas into her head sometimes, and there was nothing to be done about it. 

 

“Night John,” murmured Sherlock, who was ready to collapse on his bed and sleep for twenty hours straight. He usually did, after days of living on caffeine and adrenaline. 

 

“Good night, Sherlock,” answered John. It felt like days since he'd slept, and it had been only ten hours since Sherlock's text had dragged him out of bed. As he plugged in his phone, John noticed the golden ring he'd found that morning, on the nightstand where he'd left it after pulling it off his finger. He had no idea how he'd put it on in his sleep.

 

John was breathing hard and he didn't know why. This was the ring he'd seen in his dream, the ring that made its wearer invisible, but changed the way he saw the world to a blurry, unfocused mess of color and sound.

 

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, then put on the ring and looked at his wardrobe mirror.

 

John's reflection disappeared, pajamas and all. He pinched himself, hard, but he remained reflection-free. Only a dip in the mattress and bedclothes gave away his position. The edge of his vision had gone a bit fuzzy, not as obvious as in his dream, but noticeable.

 

Questions flew through John's tired head like machine gunfire. Where had this come from? What kind of technology made one invisible? Had Sherlock stolen it? How had it gotten into his bedroom?

 

This was decidedly Not Good.

 

He took off the ring and glared at it, relieved to see his eyesight return to normal, and his reflection reappear. John fell back onto his bed as an unnatural wave of exhaustion swept over him. A faint whisper lulled him to sleep, and he was dead to the world as soon as his head touched the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real LOTR crossover fun in this chapter, but that will come next, when John and Sherlock wake up. =) Comments are always appreciated, and see you next time!


End file.
